Summer's Gone
by lignocainer
Summary: Howard's side of Winter of Discontent.
1. Chapter 1

My particularly deep and peaceful slumber was cut short by an almighty crash, accompanied by some choice curse words and then hysterical laughter. I don't even need to bother getting out of bed to know that once again my flatmate and former best friend has had one too many and is currently inadvertently destroying the place as he lurches around with all the co-ordination of a baby giraffe on ice. No prizes for guessing whose job it will be to clear up his trail of destruction in the morning. I don't even flinch when I hear another door slam shut, shortly followed by the inevitable retching as his body tries to rid itself of a rainbow of fluorescent fluids, nor at the unmistakable sound of his array of shampoos, conditioners, sprays, lotions and potions swiftly assuming their 'end of night' positions, at the bottom of the bath. I mentally add 'tidying the bathroom' to my list of jobs to do before work, although lately it seems it's on the list more often than not.

Once upon a time, I would have jumped up when I heard him come in, made sure he got upstairs without falling, steered him away from the tables, sofas, chairs and ornaments which, cruelly, seemed to jump out in front of him with no advance warning. I would have held his hair back as he vomited, helped him remove his make up and ridiculous boots, put him to bed. I would have kept a watch over him as he slept, fearful of him choking to death in the night. Not anymore though, no sir. I grew tired of the torrent of abuse from the smaller man as I tried to help him. At some point he had changed. Instead of being grateful for my help, he became spiteful and aggressive. He would sneer that I wasn't his father and so didn't need to look after him. Ironic, I thought, as he didn't actually know who his father was, having been brought up by his teenage mother, until he was 5 years old and became 'too much to handle' so was sent to live in a home. He would slam the bathroom door behind him, refuse to let me in, tell me I was pathetic, and then scream at me if he fell, blaming me for not being there. He was a stranger, a raging ball of anger and hate, seemingly blaming me for something that I had no idea about. And then, when he awoke, the anger would be gone, my little man would be back, vain, demanding, but ultimately sweet, and apparently with no recollection of the hurt he had caused. But Howard Moon will not be taken for a fool. So, in the end, I stopped bothering, pretended to be asleep when he came home, pretended not to notice when he didn't.

It's hard though. Pretending I don't hear. Trying not to wince as I hear him crash to the ground. I bite back lectures on safe drinking as I clear up the mess each morning, not wanting to reawaken his nasty night-time alterego. Recently I've found myself avoiding him. It's just easier that way. We have years of good memories, I don't want them to be tarnished by the behaviour of this 'new Vince'. Sounds pathetic, doesn't it? I'm supposed to be a man of action and here I am hiding away. So I've made up my mind, I'm moving out. I think it might be the only chance to save our friendship, if it's not already too late. Maybe there will be a time when his late night drunken rants are forgotten, the hurtful words forgiven, and I can look him in the face again. I've even found a place to move into. It's small but clean, a one-bedroomed flat a few streets from here. I think I could be happy there. Lester lives close by and without Vince around, I can play my jazz and work on my poetry whenever I like. Yes, I think that could be the place for me. Now all that's left to do is to put down the deposit and move in. I inherited some money last year when my Aunt Mabel died. Not much, but more than enough to cover the deposit, the first month's rent, and buy some furniture. I feel a little bit guilty spending it though. I had planned to use it to take Vince to Berlin for his birthday. He'd like Berlin, lots of clubs and bars and, of course, the Bowie connection. I'd even put the money in one of those high interest savings accounts that you have to give notice to take cash out of, just to make sure I didn't waste the money on anything else. Of course, right now the last thing I want to do is go away anywhere with him, so I've made an appointment with the bank to get my money out. Tomorrow, in fact. So I'd better get back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Groaning at yet another rude awakening, this time courtesy of my alarm clock, I rub my eyes then, remembering what day it was, jump out of bed to do a few jazzercise stretches before my morning coffee. Clicking the kettle on, I survey the mess. A discarded vodka bottle lays on the sofa, half its contents now soaked into the worn red velvet. The coffee table is on its side, magazines scattered across the floor. Naboo's bong has miraculously remained unbroken, despite having fallen off the coffee table and I wonder to myself if some kind of mystical Vince-proofing is in effect. Actually it's not too bad and 10 minutes later, the place is looking, well, maybe not perfect, but back to the organised chaos which we always seemed live in. The bathroom was a complete disaster zone, but I decided to leave it for Vince. After all, it IS his mess! Anyway, I have to get down to the shop early to make sure I get all my stocktaking done down there before I have to go to the bank!

Lunchtime comes and goes and Vince still hasn't come downstairs. I know he's awake, I heard the shower going hours ago. No doubt too hungover to face me. Whatever he's up to, he better hurry up and get down here, I need to leave soon. If he makes me miss out on my ideal flat, I'll never forgive him. I pace the floor, glancing anxiously at the clock every few minutes. Idle chitchat with customers, who never buy anything anyway, seems to last for hours and I contemplate throwing them out and shutting up, but that would be most unprofessional. A maverick, I may be, but I'm always professional! Eventually I hear the creak of the door and the clicking of his heels, signalling his arrival. Spinning around, I notice the heavily backcombed hair, black shimmery leggings, sheer blue shirt, which leaves nothing to the imagination and clashes wildly with his green scarf and, oh god, he's even wearing glitter on his face. He could at least pretend he's going to do some work today, and not sneak off into town the moment my back is turned. In fact, I'm surprised he's bothered to turn up at all, instead of just sneaking out the back door. That's his usual trick. Well not this time. No sir! Today I have to stand up and do something for me, I've had enough of worrying about Vince. Realising I have less than ten minutes to get across town, I vent my anger for a couple of seconds (I have no idea what I said, but it doesn't really matter because he won't have listened anyway) before storming out of the shop.

The wind is bitter outside, and the ice has yet to thaw, much to my annoyance. Hurrying as fast as I dare, thankful for my sturdy boots, I desperately try to cover more ground than is possible, given the treacherous conditions underfoot. Typically, everything is conspiring against me and I get stuck behind Granny Scroggins and her bingo brigade, wasting yet more time. Arriving late, I am told in no uncertain terms by the snooty woman behind the desk that I have missed my appointment, and there are no more afternoon appointments available for another week (well, there's no point in me arranging a morning appointment, Vince couldn't possibly trouble himself to be out of bed so I could leave the shop in the morning now, could he?). I moan, threaten, and eventually resort to begging, offering to wait around until the end of the day, in case anyone else fails to turn up for their appointment, but she refuses to be moved. Grumbling, I accept the next available date, which is now, somewhat incredibly, 2 weeks in the future, and stomp out, slamming a door for the second time in less than an hour. I resist the urge to check out the jazz themed homeware in the newly opened Jazz Up Your Home boutique next door, partly as I probably do not now have anywhere to put said homeware, but mainly because I don't want to leave Vince in charge of the shop any longer than necessary. Who knows what disasters have occurred in my absence.


	3. Chapter 3

Angrily I yank open the door, noting the broom carelessly discarded in the middle of the floor. For some reason the little idiot doesn't seem to understand that such items do NOT live on the floor. Looking at his guilty face, I soften, wondering, for just a moment, if he's realised his mistake. Unfortunately I have already started ranting at him and see little point in ending my tirade early. Especially as he, no doubt isn't listening anyway. As if to prove my point, he makes some ridiculous comment about Top Shop sales, causing me to inadvertently blurt out my plans to move out. I had actually intended to keep that to myself until it was all finalised, at least that way he had less chance of spoiling things for me. It's then that I spot the smashed mug. My smashed mug, on the counter, proudly displayed for all to see. My favourite mug, brown and checked, one I've had for years, since back at the Zooniverse. He bought that mug for me one Christmas. His first Christmas there. The zoo was closed and all the other keepers had gone home to their families. I had planned to go back to Leeds for a few days but, on seeing the effort he had gone to, decorating our hut with a ridiculous amount of tinsel and a huge Merry Crissmas sign (I had never worked out whether this was a deliberate tribute to Kiss drummer, Peter Criss, or just an inability to spell even the simplest words), I hadn't the heart to go away and leave him. I couldn't leave him alone, not when he had no family, not at Christmas. But now the mug, like every other sign of happier times, was gone, smashed to pieces, just like our friendship. I needed to get away.

Sadly, I watch him run out of the door, apologising as he flies past. Yes, apologising. Well, I suppose that's something. Then I hear a crash and a scream. Vince's scream. Heart in mouth, I dart to the door, spotting his curled up form before I even open it. Needless to say, he's slipped on the ice, no doubt a result of those ridiculous boots he insists on wearing. He really should take a leaf out of my book when it comes to sensible footwear.

"You ok?" I ask him foolishly. Of course he's not ok, he's laying in the ice on the doorstep. I try to make some lighthearted joke about his boots not being suitable winter wear, trying to break the ice (no pun intended) after our earlier screaming match. Clearly this is a bad move.

"I'm fine, I don't need your concern, now leave me alone and I'll be back with your precious mug soon," he snaps, eyes flashing angrily.

My heart breaks as I remember how the old Vince, my Vince, would always be desperate for my help, my sympathy. In that respect, he was like a toddler. If he fell, he would look up, making sure I had seen him before creating a fuss. I lost count of the amount of times I would have to clean up his cuts, on account of the fact that he was scared of blood (strangely, this phobia seemed to have disappeared during his goth phase). Now he can't even bear to be civil to me when I'm trying to help him. I stand uselessly as he tries to get up, collapsing back down, clutching his ankle in a way that tells me he is anything but fine. He might not want my help now, but he clearly needs it, so I carefully pull him up, trying not to cause him any more pain. I note, with alarm, the way his eyes glisten with tears as he clutches me tightly, want to sweep him up in my arms and make sure no more harm comes to him. My poor little man. I look again and the tears are gone, his jaw set hard, face turned away from me. Even now, he can't bear to look at me.

After a slow, painful journey upstairs, he dismissed me, claiming again to be fine. Claiming he didn't need me, that he wasn't a child, that it was my fault he'd fallen anyway. Echoes of his nightly drunken rants. So now, I sit downstairs in the shop, worrying about him, just as I do almost every night. I've realised something though. I can't leave him. No matter how bad it gets, I'll always be there to pick him up. I just wish I could have the old Vince back, happy little Vince, the Sunshine Kid. But right now, those endless days of summer sunshine seem so far away.


End file.
